


As Broad as Nature

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drama, Early in Canon, Eventual Romance, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Requited Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-07 01:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: It is 1881, and Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson are circling each other, but for different reasons.  Cohabitation leads to many frustrations, and even more revelations.“I feel we should be honest with each other,” I said slowly, “if we are to live together in close quarters such as this.  I also feel that I can trust you, as Stamford spoke so highly of you, and I should hope you might afford me the same confidence in time.”  I hesitated, for Holmes's brows had knit, and his mouth had downturned into a strange grimace that alarmed me.  “Perhaps I say too much,” I added softly, in embarrassment.“Watson,” he said carefully, “I have known you for two days.  I am flattered by your confidence, but great heavens, man, you don't know what you're asking.”





	1. Chapter 1

Of all the exasperating situations that a man might find himself within, I had found myself within one. The year was 1881, the early part of it, and I had recently found well-appointed rooms in London with, I was discovering, a lunatic.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was lean, and tall and angular. He was also possessed fully of a sarcastic turn of phrase and an impatient twist of lip, which he deployed at any interval he pleased – which was quite often. Not that he was cold – no, I would not say that – but rather, analytical and measured. He informed me that he was unique, a master of his trade, and then sat back to watch me gape at his immodesty, and barrel him with questions as to how and why and what.

“I consult with Scotland Yard,” said he. “I am, in fact, the only consulting detective in the world.” He paused to puff his chest. He beamed. “You would know my name, of course, but you have been abroad, so I forgive you.”

I spluttered mildly.

“I have a great many bad habits,” he continued, sucking now on a malodorous clay pipe stuffed full with shag, “and a few lesser, better ones.” He smirked. “I'll leave it up to you to ascertain which ones are which.”

Upon my word, he was well-favoured, though. His eyes were grey and piercing and deep-set; his brows were thick, his nose was hawk-like, and his chin had both a prominence and squareness. All this, set to a fresh-faced youthful air, for he was but a few years younger than myself, in his mid-20s, I should say, with sleek black hair swept back. His dress was prim and scrupulous. I admired him, therefore, and wondered what he made of me.

“As for _you_ ,” said my new friend, with a gesticulating motion of his pipe, “the _vegetarian_ – well, _tchaw!_ ”

“And if that's my only flaw, then I am pleased enough to have it,” I replied. “Although I fear that Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, is unhappy with the news.”

“To say the very least of it,” said Holmes. “You are quite mad.” He smiled, and waved away my frown. “Don't pout. For we are all of us peculiar in some way, is that not so?”

“Well, I do not see how very _peculiar_ I am,” I said, still huffing, “in my wish to not cause harm to any animal, either direct or inadvertent. It is for health reasons, also,” I added. “Holmes, I am a doctor. I have made a study of the benefits. I may tell you, there are many.”

_“Tchaw!”_

“Anyway,” I continued, by now warming to my theme, “you are a fine one to be talking of peculiar. You, with your tobacco stuffed in the toe of an old slipper! And you, who has made a pretty mess already of the mantelpiece, stabbing at your letters with a jack-knife! And you, who--”

“--Yes, yes, all right,” said he. “Good gracious, how you rattle on. I'd rather that you chew your pipe.” He paused. “By the way, it is a _Persian_ slipper, Watson, and a _smart_ one, not a ratty one, so please do amend your judgement.”

I laughed. I saw that my amusement rather pleased him; perhaps he realised I was not as dry a stick as he had feared. I thought we might get on quite well. I found him fascinating – for all his eccentricity – and looked forward with some eagerness for all the days to come in which I might observe the fellow. I had been invalided home from war quite recently, and was currently much weakened with a slow-healing leg and shoulder wound. How fortunate I was to have met old Stamford by sheer chance, and to learn of 221B Baker Street, with its light and airy rooms that would be most affordable if sharing with this fellow Holmes, and, well, here we were all settled in and doing very nicely. I anticipated future days in comfort by the fireside, books and journals spread around me, cultivating this new friendship (how bold to call it so, already!) and becoming reacquainted with civilian life. 

“I want to tell you, Holmes,” I said, feeling emboldened of a sudden, “that you are free to speak with me on any subject you so choose. Nothing is off limits. You must not think of me as some sad shrinking violet. I enjoy debate, and am, I think, unshockable. I would like it quite especially if you discussed your casework with me.”

Holmes eyed me sideways, an odd expression on his face that I found puzzling. “Some things are better left unsaid regardless,” he replied. He shook his head as I began to speak. “Now Watson, I appreciate your... _willingness_... however, I am the oddest bird, so there are certain facts about me that I am sure you would not wish to know.” He smiled. “Oh, you're frowning again. It's all right. I haven't _murdered_ anyone, you needn't worry on that score. But my casework? That is different altogether. I should indeed like to discuss it any time that you see fit. It's good to talk things through, you know. It helps to clear things in my mind. So, yes, and thank you, Watson, that is most kind of you.”

He sat back in his chair then, elbows propped and fingers steepled to his lips. His eyes were bright as he observed me, as if now waiting for remonstrance. He did not have so long to wait.

“What do you mean by 'certain facts'?” I asked.

He shrugged. 

“I feel we should be honest with each other,” I said slowly, “if we are to live together in close quarters such as this. I also feel that I can trust you, as Stamford spoke so highly of you, and I should hope you might afford me the same confidence in time.” I hesitated, for Holmes's brows had knit, and his mouth had downturned into a strange grimace that alarmed me. “Perhaps I say too much,” I added softly, in embarrassment.

“Watson,” he said carefully, “I have known you for two days. I am flattered by your confidence, but great heavens, man, you don't know what you're asking.”

He slid the glass decanter across the table as a peacemaker. “More brandy,” he said, smiling, “and let us talk of Winwood Reade. Would you happen to have read _The Martyrdom of Man?_ ”

Confused, I let the subject drop. We spoke of books instead, and as the evening drew the darker I found myself with a small pile that sat beside me, with more yet added as my friend plucked volumes down from his great shelves. “You _must_ read Meredith, and Poe. I can't _believe_ you know so little of Gaboriau. Well, perhaps that's for the best, as his Lecoq was a miserable bungler.” (And so it went.)

At length my leg began to ache, and so I bid Holmes a good night, picked up my books and made the headway to the stairs and so to bed. As I undressed, my thoughts were deep and, I dare say, a tad unsettled. I heard the faint sound of a violin, and listened in distraction as I folded down my shirt. I shivered at the cold night air, the fire burning low, and tucked myself under the blankets, where the sweetest notes and semibreves still found a way to creep and infiltrate my fretful dreaming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day was wretched: raining, dark, and cold. I grumbled through my morning toilet, and reached the sitting-room to find the fire lit, to my relief, and a fine breakfast on the table, and Sherlock Holmes digging his spoon into the middle, largest dish. He looked up as I entered.

“There you are at last,” said he. “I thought you must have perished in the night, and I would find you sheathed in ice upon your bed. The breakfast's hot; you'd better come and help yourself.”

I heaped my plate with toast and scrambled eggs, and poured a cup of steaming coffee which I sipped as Holmes sat down to join me, keen and spruce and affable.

“Did you read Meredith?” he asked.

I chuckled; shook my head. “Not yet.”

He looked put out. “Well, when?”

“I've no idea. When I have time.”

Holmes waved his knife, and flecks of butter dashed a temporary halo. “But all you _have_ is time. You're sat here morning, noon and night. I can't think what you _do_ with time.” He dabbed the cloth with a clean napkin. “Well?”

“Holmes,” I said, “it is too early in the morning for me to face interrogation.” I took a mouthful from my fork. “But do keep talking, if it pleases you.”

“If it _pleases_ me!” He made a sound that intimated thwart and pique and other things. He chivvied at his bacon and he pushed his eggs around. “Nothing pleases me,” he added.

“I had noticed.”

We caught each other's eye, and both were smiling simultaneously. The moment caught; somehow we held it for a second over comfortable. Holmes coughed and looked away. I felt my cheeks flush for a reason that I could not start to fathom. I was thankful for the coffee cup, the window, and the newspaper. When I returned my head to Holmes some several minutes later, his eye was back on me. I wondered for how long.

“What are your plans?” I gabbled out.

“My plans?” He sounded just as dazed as I.

“Your plans, Holmes. For the day?” 

“ _Oh._ Well, there is someone I must visit near Pall Mall, a little later on. I have some letters I must write. I must read the papers once you've finished them – the agony column of _The Times_ , at any rate.” He yawned and stretched like a sleek cat upon his chair. “Quite a dull day, but never mind, it can't be helped.”

“You have a client near Pall Mall?” I asked, intrigued.

Holmes drained his coffee cup and stood. He snatched his pipe from the small table by the fireside, and squinted in the bowl of it. “No,” he said. “An irritant.” He winked at me. “That's all.”

I felt a flutter in my chest and puzzled wildly for the time it took to eat my second slice of toast, and finish off the eggs. I thought that I should stay close to the fire today – the weather was quite filthy – and perhaps read some George Meredith. I hoped that that might please my friend. I was not sure as why the latter point seemed so important to me, therefore I opted not to dwell on it. 

Holmes smoked his pipe. From time to time he cast a glance up to the mantel clock, and sighed. He sighed again when Mrs. Hudson came to clear the breakfast plates, and yet the louder at his being told – in fond, brisk tones regardless – of there being no mail today.

“But not a single thing?” he asked, in seeming hope that our landlady might remember a small sackful in the hallway, by some miracle. His face was so downcast that I was much amused, and ducked behind my newspaper for fear that he should spot me and turn sullen.

He turned sullen anyway. He shrugged himself into his overcoat, and fussed about his gloves. “What is the point, when there's no mail?” he said, to no-one in particular. He took up his hat but it displeased him, for he tutted and wiped crossly at the brim of it. “Oh, bother it – and bother to Pall Mall,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a stern look at me.

“I'm sorry,” I said earnestly. I put my paper down.

“It's not your fault,” said he. “You mustn't pay me any mind when I'm like this. I must go out. I shan't be long. At least, I _hope_ not.” He tossed his head. “I'd rather stay in here with you.” He stopped abruptly, as if his tongue had bolted for the open stable door and left its groom behind. “I mean to say,” he added swiftly, “what with the weather, and the cold, and all this nuisance with _Pall Mall_.”

“Yes, of course, Holmes. I understand,” I said.

I watched him as he bustled, and raised my hand in brief farewell as he turned for the outside landing. The slam of the front door then, and I hurried to the window to look out upon his head as it, and all the rest of him, moved briskly down the street and out of sight of my keen eye.


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes returned to Baker Street a little after one o'clock. I had spent the intervening hours in quiet consideration, and arranging a small few of my possessions around our sitting-room: a figurine, an ashtray, several books upon the shelf. My own tastes in modern literature were quite dissimilar to my friend's. I had a fondness for 'sea adventures': pulpy, common reads that Holmes would very likely turn his nose at. I opened up George Meredith at some late point, determined to be dutiful, and it was he I persevered with 'til the sandwiches for luncheon were brought up by Mrs. Hudson. I had taken but one bite out of a dainty egg and cheese, when the front door below resounded and I heard the pounding footsteps that heralded the return.

Holmes burst into the room, all flailing arms and spraying raindrops. Coat and hat and scarf were jettisoned; the gloves were tossed upon the sofa, where Holmes rejoined them seconds later. He slumped there in spreadeagle, head thrown back and eyes tight shut.

I erupted into laughter; I could not help it in the slightest. The irritated starfish on the sofa roused itself and cast a glare in my direction.

“ _Watson_. There you are. I'm cold and wet, and miserable. This day could not get any worse.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. “Have a sandwich.” I relayed the plate to where he sat, and perched myself at some near distance. “Would it help to talk about it?”

He exhaled; his points retracted, and he turned his head to contemplate the interfering fellow sat beside him. “I don't know,” he said. “But Watson, there are two things you must do for me.”

“Anything.”

“Well, in the first instance, you must stop apologising, or we shall never know the end of it. And secondly, you really need not feed me sandwiches as if I were a starveling bird. My appetite is fickle, as you shall come to know in time.”

“Oh.” I said. “I'm sor-- I mean, all right.”

Holmes manoeuvred his lean frame into the upright. He rummaged in his pocket for his silver cigarette case, which he snapped open and, with long thin fingers, selected a tight roll. He lit it, leaning back, his nostrils flaring acrid smoke. “That is _much_ better. I declare: tobacco cures all ills.”

I poured two cups of tea and set one down for him. I felt disheartened and rejected, but did my very best to hide it. Of course, we were still strangers to each other, and of course, we did not know each other's stories yet, not really, just the barest bones, and hardly that. I wanted to, god knows, and that thought pricked at me.

“I have an elder brother,” Holmes said abruptly. “Who lives adjacent to Pall Mall.”

“Oh!” I blurted, startled from my reverie. “Then that is where you were this morning?”

“Well done, Watson,” he said dryly. “You truly scintillate.” He took a long pull from his cigarette. “His name is _Mycroft_. Mycroft is seven years my elder. He is the bane of my existence.”

“How so?”

I watched his face contort. “I am reliant – how shall I put it? – on his patience and _generosity_.”

“I'm not sure that I understand,” I said. “Mycroft has loaned you money?”

Holmes smoothed his hair back from his forehead in a nervous, fractious gesture. “In a manner of speaking. _Oh_ – give me a sandwich.”

I offered the plate. He snatched one at random and bit into it sharply. I waited while he chewed, until his brows relaxed their tangle.

“Where is the _meat?_ ” he asked, all petulance. “What have you _done_ to Mrs. Hudson?” 

“I had a brother too,” I said. “He died.”

Holmes stared at me. The sandwich that he held between his forefinger and thumb was quite forgotten as he processed this. “When?” he asked, at last.

“A long time ago. I miss him very much. I still have his pocket watch as a small keepsake.” (I withdrew it, for a second, from my waistcoat, for Holmes to see.)

My friend's face softened, and he reached out with his free hand to pat at my leg in sympathy.

“Before I moved here,” he said quietly, “I had rooms at a small house on Montague Street.” 

I nodded, leaning forward, to encourage him. 

“I began my business there, and was content.” He stopped again, and looked at me.

“It is all right,” I said. “Please tell me.”

Holmes retrieved his cigarette and flicked the ash onto the rug. “I was evicted,” he said finally.

“Because you could not pay the rent?”

He shook his head. “Not that. Another reason.” And his lip set firm; his eyes took on a distant glaze. “That is all that I can tell you for the present. But Mycroft is tied up in it, and that is why I had to see him at Pall Mall, and it is why I'm in the temper that I'm in.” He stubbed his cigarette and smiled at me. “It all happened for the best, perhaps. See here, now I'm with you, and Baker Street is so much nicer, and I'm sure that everything will be all right.” He fretted with a fraying cushion tassel. “Don't you think?”

“Yes,” I said, “I think you're right.” I paused a moment. “Will I chance to meet your brother?”

A look of horror passed Holmes's face. “Good lord, I hope not,” he exclaimed. “The less he knows of you, the better. He knows that you _exist_ , of course, but really, I don't want him here. He's difficult.”

“You're shivering,” I said. “I'll poke the fire.” 

I felt protective of a sudden, for this odd man with his fierce brother; all the complexities of family that I no longer had. A pang of tenderness reached out from me and wove its way in tendrils to my friend, who sat there watching me, his cup raised to his lips, a second sandwich on his knee.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You are most welcome.”

“What of your parents?” he enquired.

“They are both dead,” I said, matter-of-fact. “Pneumonia,” I added.

Holmes nodded, and was quiet for a moment. “Mine are too,” he whispered then. “But not pneumonia.” He paused. “I rarely speak of them. I don't know that I'm comfortable in doing so.” An anxious movement with his cup that almost caused his tea to spill proved a distraction long enough to change the subject, blot the sentiment. 

But Mrs. Hudson at our door, then. I wondered how we might have carried on with no disturbance, being intimate so suddenly, with misery as catalyst. Holmes had a letter – oh, his face lit up! – and he snatched it rather rudely, and I felt compelled to garble an apology on his behalf. Our landlady was courteous, retreating with a nod and further promises of dinner at eight sharp. I turned to Holmes and saw his face close to the envelope, but why, whatever for? What was he doing? Now, even stranger, he was peeling back the stamp, and then holding the whole thing aloft against the winter light that trickled in from our bay window.

“Holmes,” I said, “what are you _doing?_ ”

He beckoned that I join him, and I did so, curiosity in flare. Holmes clapped my shoulder. “Look,” said he, “just take this, and now tell me what you see.”

I held the envelope, and looked at it. I frowned and looked again.

“It is an envelope,” I said. “The ink is black, and, er, the stamp is somewhat crooked.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Holmes tutted in admonishment. “Well, any fool can see the ink is black, and any imbecile could tell you that the stamp is crooked.”

“ _Thank_ you, Holmes.”

He winced. “I mean, you state the obvious.”

“That much _is_ very obvious.”

A small look passed between us. I cleared my throat. “But do go on.”

“There are traces of tobacco on the underside of the stamp. The hand is masculine, yet weak – you will notice the light pressure, and the jitter of the stroke. The envelope quality is high-end; it is embossed. Ergo, your thoughts?”

“Er, the sender is a smoker, male, in old age or ill health, and well-to-do?”

“Yes! You see how much you notice, when you try? Well done, Watson. Now, let me see what this old fellow has to say.”

I left him to it, and returned to the warm fireplace. I poured another cup of tea, and nibbled the last sandwich. I kept a roving eye on Holmes, who was now pacing near the window with his nose glued to his recent correspondence. I had never known the like of him. I had never _seen_ the like of him. My breath caught as he strode towards the sofa and regained his place upon it.

“What ho, Watson,” the enigma said, “I have a case, it seems, thank goodness. I was going mad. But all is saved. An errant spouse!”

“How lovely!” I said, stupidly. I listened as he told me of the detail, and I made small interjections to be helpful. And if I moved a fraction closer to the fellow, it was pure accident; and if my eye caught his and lingered, then I blamed it on his narrative: so very _interesting_.

“I read Meredith,” I said, at some far juncture in our talk.

“ _Watson_ , I just _knew_ you would. And how did you enjoy him?”

“...Immensely,” I said, lying through my teeth.

We spoke of music; of the violin. I complimented him on his sure touch with it; the music I had heard. He glowed with pleasure, and he promised he would play my favourite airs, if I might tell him what they were. I said I would, yes absolutely, yes, I would.

And at eight sharp, we sat to dinner, and we spoke yet more of everything and nothing. Mrs. Hudson was so kind to make a lentil stew; I coaxed my friend to take a bowl. He did so, at my chafing, and he liked it well enough. Our talk was merry, with the wine, and I neglected all the voices in my head that asked me _What? Now, what exactly are you playing at? Just what?_ Because they were inconsequential, and they made no sense to me, no sense at all.

Later, by the fire, we fell to silence. Yet later still, when I'd retired to bed, once more the frigid room with its small fireplace and smaller draughty window, I lay there, frowning with my conscience. And after frowning for the better part of half the night, I slept, and tossed the blankets off the bed, and wrenched the pillows into mania.


	3. Chapter 3

A week had passed. Holmes had been busy with his work, and the few hours that he deigned to spend at home were spent distractedly and taciturn, immersed in books and business. For my own part, I had contracted a foul cold, and laid abed for several days for the sole purpose of a wallow in self-pity. Oh, a man when he is ill is not a happy sight, and I was not a happy man, denuded of the company I desperately sought. I sulked far more than was appropriate, and I snapped at Mrs. Hudson, to my shame, when she brought cups of steaming-hot honey and lemon up two steep flights of stairs and into my cross hands.

I rallied, finally. On the seventh day I took a bath and shaved, and dressed myself and went downstairs to face the morning and my friend, should he not be _in absentia_.

Sherlock Holmes was in, and he was smoking his first pipe. It consisted of the random plugs and dottles from the day before – so was therefore fairly noxious. He sprang erect upon my entrance, almost up-ending the table lamp.

“Watson! You're out of bed at last. You're looking well. How are you?”

“I feel much better,” I admitted. “Thank you, Holmes. What is the news?”

We took our chairs beside the fire and eyed each other for a moment.

“I solved the case,” my friend replied. “It was the old man's second cousin after all.”

“Aha! I thought as much.”

He cackled. “Oh, you fibber. And now I've nothing more to do. _Again_. So I'm glad that you have risen from your death bed. We must do something nice to celebrate.” He tapped the stem of his black clay against his temple in deep thought. “Let's go to dinner, then, tonight. My treat. Have you _been_ out of this house since we moved in?”

“No, I have not,” I said. “Holmes, that's very kind of you, and dinner would be wonderful.”

He beamed. “Oh, that is excellent. Somewhere close by, I think, so your poor gammy leg won't gripe. Ho hum! I think, perhaps, _The Morgan_. It is comfortable and quiet, and their menu is really very good. Eight o'clock!” he said, and waved a finger in the air.

I trusted that my face revealed no sign of the excitement that was now roiling from within me. Inwardly, I also shook my head at how ridiculous I was. A farther corner of my mind had just embarked on a small raft of minor panic sailing into a dark haze of consternation. And thus, the state that I was in progressed throughout the day, once more left quite alone as Holmes departed for “the Yard” to see a fellow named “Lestrade”, a rhyming couplet like no other. I napped mid-afternoon, and woke just as my friend returned. We shared a pot of tea and the newspapers, then I excused myself. I went up to my room and sorted through my clothes to wear. I selected a new suit I had not worn before; I polished up my boots; I trimmed my moustache, picked my cufflinks (silver amethyst), and sat down on a chair to ponder. By seven-thirty I was dressed, and so descended to the sitting-room to see where Holmes was at.

We each laid eyes upon the other, and at precisely the same moment. If time stood still, it over-balanced. If the air seemed thick, it was a strangling pea-souper.

“Holmes.” I said.

“Watson.” A heartbeat, then: “You are looking very fine.”

“And so are you.”

Pinpoints of red in both our cheeks, I thought and felt.

“It has stopped raining now, at least,” said Holmes. He motioned to the window.

“Yes.”

“Well, shall we?” And he swung his hand towards the door. I nodded, mute. We stepped together to the landing, down the stairs and to the street. He linked his arm with mine. We walked at a slow pace, and I was happy, brimming over, and I wondered if he felt the same as I, right now, this instant.

_The Morgan_ was a small bay-fronted restaurant, not far away. A board outside the front displayed the 'Special' of the day, a roast beef platter, and inside, a quiet bustle, starched white tablecloths and polished wood, and booths adorned with vines, and smiling waiters who did welcome us and guide us to our place. We took our seats inside a booth quite far away from everyone. Holmes ordered wine; we watched the world outside for barely a small fraction, then:

“How have you _really_ been?”

I blinked at Holmes. “I have been... well,” I said. I huffed a laugh, and shook my head. “That is a lie.”

His hand shot out and tapped at my left knuckle. “So, now tell me.”

“Tell you what?” My heart was palpitating, frantic.

“Tell me anything.”

I looked at him, into that pale, clear face, and I sensed light, if light were dawning, and the terror of it struck me like a blade. “You would not want to know,” I said.

He laughed. “Well, I recall I said the same not long ago; yet here we are.” He cocked his head. “I want to know.”

The wine arrived. We humoured the sommelier: the uncorking of the '68, the pomp and ceremony; and we swirled and sniffed and sipped and, thus approved, were left in peace.

“I am adjusting,” I said, hedging all my bets.

Holmes rolled his eyes. “What does _that_ mean?”

“To my new life. To life with... you,” I pointed at him, and he raised his eyebrows high into his head. “It all takes time,” I said, into my wine. _Swirl and sniff and sip; repeat._

“I imagine that it does,” he said.

We read the menu as the waiter hovered over us.

“I'll have the leek and mushroom pie,” I said, “with roasted brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes.”

“I'll have the same,” said Sherlock Holmes. He thrust our menus at the waiter and, with elbows on the table, focused all his concentration on the cutlery in front of him.

“Wouldn't you rather--” I began.

“No, I would not.” 

I held his gaze.

“Had you always lived alone?” I asked. “Before you moved to Baker Street?”

“Well, yes. Apart from university, and the less that's said of _that_ , so much the better.” He struck a fingernail against the upper third of his filled wine glass, and the sound, so sweet and thin, reverberated. “I want to hear about the Army. How you started, where you went, how you enjoyed it.”

I told him everything I could, and he listened with attention, asking questions to fill in the gaps I left. I spoke of hardship and of combat, my endeavours, and the friends that I had made, our camaraderie; the losses on the field that were so difficult to bear. I also touched upon the subject of my wounds, the Jezail bullet that had struck me, and my painful journey home. Holmes murmured sympathies, and then, when I had ended my long spiel, he talked a little of his family abroad: some distant relatives; a French painter named Vernet. He had not been close to any one of them, but I found the history riveting. At length my friend curtailed his speech and said:

“Now Watson, tell me, have you ever been in love?”

I inhaled sharply. “No,” I said. “I wish I had,” I added quietly. “My years spent in the army rather put the bosh on that.”

“But you have courted?” he persisted.

“Yes,” I nodded. “Several ladies, while I studied for my medical degree. But nothing came of either of them.” I shrugged comically. “And you?” I turned the question back to him. Holmes quirked his lip, and took a sip of his white wine, which he rolled up and down his palate before swallowing, and answering.

“I have never been in love,” he said.

I waited.

“But I have courted,” he said finally.

I absorbed this information. “The lady must have been a pretty one,” I said, as compliment.

Holmes snorted rather rudely. He took the bottle and poured us both a second glass of chilled white wine.

“Why did you snort?” I asked, amused.

He regarded me, and shook his head. “Why don't you take a _guess_.”

“Then will you tell me if I'm right?”

He shook his head again, and laughed. I joined the laughter, and we both rolled in our chairs at this small comicry, until at last we paused and stared each other over, solemnly.

Our food arrived, a fine distraction from the tension we had somehow both engendered, and we ate, and drank the wine, and spoke no more until our plates had been scraped clean.

“That was quite fair,” said Sherlock Holmes. 

“It was indeed,” I said. “Now, should we take dessert, or...?”

“Of _course_ we should,” my fine friend said. “Good gracious, Watson, what is a dinner without a tart or pie or _something_ with which to weigh it down?” He smiled and touched my hand. “You choose. You have good taste, apparently.”

An apple tart and custard, then, with a coffee pot to follow on, and brandy too. And then we sat, replete, somehow reluctant to move anywhere but where we were, inside our booth, secluded and so intimate together.

“Why don't you take a guess,” he said again.

We had had too much to drink, perhaps. Our faces both were flushed, our eyes were bright and over-keen; our tongues were loose. I looked at Holmes. He cocked an eyebrow, leaning forward. “ _Guess_ ,” he hissed.

“But you won't tell me if I'm right,” I said.

He leaned back in his chair and raked his fingers through his hair. “It's getting late. I'd better settle up the bill.”

Holmes called the waiter, paid the bill, and tipped a generous amount. We walked into the night, muffled against the biting wind, the sleeting rain. Holmes did not take my arm, this return journey, but the weather was so inclement that I scarcely even noticed. We were home in a short time, hanging our coats, removing hats, and then my friend turned round to look at me.

“One last drink?” said he, “or are you turning in?”

“I'm turning in, I think. I am done in. It was a _lovely_ evening, Holmes, I do appreciate your kindness.”

He nodded shortly. “Well, good night.”

“Good night.”

I climbed the stairs up to my room and shut the door. I lit the lamp. I stood there stupidly, not knowing what to do. I set the poker to the fire for some pale warmth to fight the chill, then I undressed and got into my bed. I sat, with back against the board, my knees up to my chin, the blankets wrapped around me.

“To _hell_ with it,” I said aloud. 

I burrowed down and curled into a ball. My eyes screwed shut, I clenched my fists and made a sound not human to my ear: half sob, half feral whine. I must admit my own true nature now. Admitting it to no-one but myself, and for the first time in my life.

“I want him. Oh, god help me, but _I want him_.”


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, I slept late. It was nine before I dragged myself awake, to find the will to wash and dress and comb my hair. My head was spinning – not from wine, but from the state that I now found myself within. Wanting a man. This ardour, suddenly a searing flame, a _need_ , a rash desire, or what you will. God, how I wanted him! I regarded my reflection in the mirror, my pale and anxious face, and wondered what the merry hell I might or should not do. 

I heard a clatter from the sitting-room – so Holmes was up betimes, most likely at the breakfast table, nonchalant and sipping coffee, and I simply _had_ to see him right this moment, or I should go quite simply mad.

I left my room and so descended, formulating my _Good morning!_ while my heart beat a staccato in my chest.

By the window stood a tall and dark-dressed gentleman, whose corpulence was notable, in tandem with his breathing which was laboured from his efforts up our stairs. He was alone, and turned around now as I entered. His small eyes were sharp and focused, his grey mouth was sour and set, and his three chins were undulating as he dropped his jaw to gawk.

“Good morning, sir,” I said. “May I ask whom you are visiting?”

“Oh ho,” said he. “Oh ho! You must be _Watson_.” And he looked at me anew, his head a-tilt.

“I am John Watson,” I concurred. “And you are...?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” said Mycroft Holmes. “But do you always rise this late?”

“Indeed not,” I said, my hackles on the rise. “But I was dining with your brother late last evening, and I had had a tiring day, and...” I tailed off. I extended my right hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

Mr. Holmes looked at my hand as if it were a rancid cod. Rancid cod or no he shook it anyway, but dropped it promptly. “Have you settled in?” he asked. “And where is Sherlock, do you know?”

I scanned the room as if my friend might yet be hiding in a corner. “I do not know,” I said. “We're settled in quite well, thank you. I'm very glad to be here, as your brother is remarkable.”

“ _Remarkable!_ ” The elder Holmes let out a doughty chirrup that I supposed to be a laugh. “Oh, he's remarkable, all right. Ha ha!” His grey eyes narrowed, took me in a little more. “And you are friends?”

“Yes, we are friends,” I said, confused. “Of course we are.”

“And you do not mind the...” Here Mycroft Holmes made a small gesture of a piston with his thumb and first two fingers, and I stared at the strange mime and frowned.

“I do not understand you, I'll admit, sir.”

“Oh, you soon will,” said Mr. Holmes, and laughed again. “And has he told you of the other?”

“Of the... other?”

“Well, Montague Street, naturally. Good gracious me, what _do_ you talk about? The price of bread, and ladies' fashions? Where _is_ Sherlock? I must speak with him.”

As if on cue, there was a slam below, a brisk step on the stair, then here he was, the man in question, with his face alight on seeing me. His eyes caught on his brother just a brief split second later, and the shock upon his face compelled a similar reaction from myself. We stood, all three, in a wide circle, puzzled, glaring and aloof.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Holmes hissed. “I said I'd always come to you.”

“Well, that way doesn't always work,” said Mycroft Holmes. 

“Should I, er...?” I pointed to the stairs.

“Yes, you had better,” said my friend. “I'm sorry, Watson.”

“It's quite all right.” I left and closed the door, returning to my room. For a long spell there was stone silence, then a raised muttering, and finally, two voices at high decibel. Who was coming off the worse for it, I could not tell, but then: “ _I haven't said a word, and don't you bloody interfere_...” from Holmes. A minute or two later, and I heard the door wrenched open and the heavy, puffing steps of a large gentleman descending to the hall. I waited yet, then slowly trailed down to the sitting-room. The door was flung agape, and Sherlock Holmes was standing wretched in the middle of the room.

“Are you all right?” I asked, dismayed.

“Oh, I am fine.” Holmes lit a cigarette, and sucked upon it nervously. He gestured to the table. “There is some breakfast but it's very likely cold. I'll call and ask for some more tea.” He went to move, but I reached out and caught his arm.

“Don't mind the tea. What was all that? Come and sit down.” 

“We need more _tea_ ,” said Holmes. He disappeared. For want of something sensible to do, I buttered toast and set a plate of it aside. I moved the cold trays to the sideboard, straightened the cloth, and took my seat. When Holmes returned, he was serene once more. He joined me at the table.

“You must forgive me for that spectacle,” he said. “But now you see what I must deal with.”

We sat in silence for a moment. “Why does he speak to you that way?” I asked. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Good old Watson,” said my friend. “You are a loyal chum. I'm grateful that you're here.”

I felt a swell of raw emotion in my gut; a yearning draw towards this fellow sitting opposite, so calm yet so forlorn – and who I wanted very desperately to comfort.

“Please talk to me,” I said. “A problem shared is a problem halved – is that not so?”

Holmes focused his attention solely on the buttered toast. “I want to,” he said quietly. “I want to, but it's difficult.”

We shared the toast, and very shortly we had tea, which I poured out. We sat companionably, looking from our window to the street bustling below.

“So what did Mycroft say to you?”

I sighed and shook my head. “He was quite vague about it all, and rather rude, I must admit. He mentioned Montague Street, but only by name.”

“Oh, he _would_. And what else?”

“Holmes,” I said, “do you inject?”

My friend exhaled; he dropped his head. “So Mycroft really stooped that low.” He undid the cuff of his left sleeve and rolled it up, to reveal a forearm scarred with puncture-marks. “I do. Not all the time. Occasionally. A seven-per-cent solution of cocaine.” He searched my face. “You are disgusted with me now.”

“No,” I said. “No. You could never disgust me.”

“Oh, I think that I could.”

“You should try me.”

Holmes barked a short laugh. He lit two fresh cigarettes, and handed me one: an intimate act, with the moist of his lips on the foot of my roll. I thrilled as I touched my own mouth to the paper, and drew in a lungful of strong sweet tobacco. 

“May I call you John?” he asked, tapping his fingers on the table in a fidget. “That is, if you don't mind?”

“I would be honoured,” I replied, a glow of happiness within me. “And may I call you Sherlock?”

“I would rather you did not. I loathe the name.” He smiled. “Unless you _really_ must.”

I laughed. “That's quite all right.”

We smoked our cigarettes, and neither one of us seemed to find the will to tear his eyes away. 

“Why do you inject?” 

Holmes tapped at his head. “My brain never slows down. It is constantly active. Do you have any idea what that's like, and how _dreadful_ it is when I've no casework to feed it? I do it from boredom. The boredom is agony, John.”

“I understand,” I said gently.

“Do you, John, really?”

I nodded. Holmes smiled; it was a small, crooked smile. 

“I am an impossible man,” he said softly. “You will see that in time, and you'll leave, just like everyone else.”

“Like who else? I will not, I assure you. You are stuck with me now.”

“Then I'm glad,” said my friend, and he rose from his chair. “I must work on my Index. Will you stay with me here?”

I told him I would, and I sat in my chair by the fire as he hauled down his volumes of A through to E, and of F through to J. Holmes catalogued trifles and snippets of news that he thought might prove useful in time. Cuttings from papers and journals, and handwritten notes, on the widest of subjects: criminals, crimes, the titled people of London, the histories of many, and much more besides. Now Holmes sat on the rug with his scissors and glue, and he snipped and he stuck to his deepest content. And I, with time to breathe after the tumult of the morning, watched him work, and allowed my thoughts to stray to places where perhaps they'd better not. _You are so beautiful_ , I told him silently. I fought against the guilt and shame; I tamped those feelings flat and then I tucked them out of sight, because I would not feel so guilty, and I would not feel ashamed. I thought of Holmes's words, “ _And you'll leave, just like everyone else_.” Friends or lovers? He had avoided my question. I thought of him in the arms of a woman, and flinched, for the pain was acute. Yet it must have been so; for he had answered as much to my question the previous evening.

I was so deep inside my head, I had not noticed that my friend had ceased his work and was now leaning back and watching me. His eyes seemed black and hooded from the shadows in the room; the expression on his face seemed raw and vulnerable – the encounter with his brother had so affected him, no doubt. Then in a second, he reassumed his mask: the cool, the calm, collected. Sherlock Holmes blinked once-twice-thrice, as if his engine were restarting after dawdling awhile. 

“I did not think that this would happen, John,” he said, so quietly I had to crane my neck to hear.

“That what would happen, Holmes?” 

He shook his head, but smiling now. “Another time, perhaps.” He rose and tidied up his paperwork, returned the volumes to the shelf. When all was clear, he nodded briefly and, without a further word, walked to his bedroom door and disappeared within.


	5. Chapter 5

A minor trifle that involved a trip to Surrey kept Holmes busy for the following two days. It was successful, by his own account, although his knuckles had been barked and his suit jacket had been torn. The latter went to Mrs. Hudson for repair, whereas the former came to me at my insistence, and I assumed my doctor's hat. Holmes sat before me patiently while I fussed with salve and bandages, and scolded him for recklessness.

“I've had far worse than this,” said he.

“That's nothing to be proud of,” I admonished him. “The fellow had a knife. You could have been more deeply wounded.”

“Pish.”

His hand was cool and soft; I felt reluctant to release it, but let go of it I must, or else latch on like some wild python and alarm the both of us.

“Well, that's better,” said Holmes. “I feel like a new man.” And he angled a smirk. “If you'll pardon the phrase.” (Holmes's humour very often confused me.) We sat together on the sofa as the day faded to dusk. My friend was buoyant and loquacious, and it filled my heart to hear him talk and joke of his adventure. “John, when you are well, you _really must_ come with me on these jaunts. You would be in your true element.” He winked. “And you'd be useful.”

“I absolutely will,” I said. “I promise. When this leg of mine is healed.”

“Your leg's a nuisance,” said my friend.

“It just needs time.”

“Oh, time. That dreadful bore.”

“Will you play your violin a while?”

“If you would like.”

“Yes, very much.”

And so he took his Stradivarius, and propped it underneath his chin, put rosin to his bow, and played. The song was sweet and wistful; I had not heard it played before. Without a pause he turned to Mendelssohn, his “Lieder”, that swooping, lilting tune I so adored. I closed my eyes in perfect happiness, and listened to the notes sing in the air that lay between us, and I could not think of any place where I would rather be.

“You have a gift for improvisation,” I said, when Holmes set down his bow.

“I compose, from time to time,” said he, looking very pleased. “Oh John, I wish that you were musical, and that you played piano. I would buy one, just for you, and then we'd play duets each evening...” He drifted off into a reverie, a smile upon his face.

“I owned a penny whistle once,” I said. “Which is perhaps not the same thing.”

Holmes put his Stradivarius away, and we were quiet for a while, lost in our thoughts.

“We must talk tonight,” Holmes said, quite suddenly. “But after dinner would be best, I think.”

I nodded, and my heart dropped to my boots, for what could he be planning to reveal? I worried silently. I found myself distracted to the point where all the words within the book that I was reading upturned to inane mumbo-jumbo, and I had turned a dozen pages not absorbing anything. I lit the lamps and closed the curtains, and then could only sit and wait. My feelings for my friend had grown the stronger; he filled my mind and lovesick soul. I ached and pined and was a sorry mess, but did not know what I might do, for fear of making this sad situation worse. We sat to dinner, then, and fumbled through a turn of normalcy that fooled precisely neither one.

“You are too quiet, John,” said Holmes. “Shall we take coffee by the fire?”

We moved across, and sat. Here Holmes seemed greatly ill at ease. “You must be wondering what this is all about,” he said. “Do you recall, a while ago, you declared you were unshockable?”

“Indeed I do,” I said. “And that still holds.” The air caught in my throat. Was that the truth? What was my friend about to say? 

“Well then, now I shall be honest, as you asked, and tell my story,” he replied. “And heaven help the pair of us.” He leaned forward in his chair then, and I did the same in mine, and we were but just two feet apart and yet a world away.

“The last three months before I moved to Baker Street, I lived with Mycroft,” said my friend. He curled his lip. “It was a necessary evil. I was thrown out of Montague Street, as I mentioned to you earlier. There had been something of a scandal.” And he paused, and took a breath. “The landlady claimed _'Indecency'_.”

“Indecency?” I shook my head. “Whatever did you do?”

“I was caught with someone, John. In a dark stairwell.” And he released a bitter laugh. “I think we frightened her to death. She screamed, and dashed into her hovel. I was filled with dread, for I knew what it might mean for me. Sure enough, she wrote me a harsh letter the next day, with threats and blackmail, and I knew I needed Mycroft.” Here my friend screwed up his face. “It tortured me to do so, but needs must, and I confided. My brother is quite powerful, you know, John, and he has much city influence. By some means – and likely foul – he has pulled me out of that dire hole, but on a warning: it is my _final chance_. Any further misdemeanours, and I'll be for it, no mistake.” Holmes looked at me. “So, my last chance is here at Baker Street, with you.” He laughed again and shook his head. A pause. “What do you think of me now?”

“I cannot understand,” I said, “how being caught in an embrace inside a stairwell with a lady friend, could result in such embarrassment?”

Holmes struck at his head. “Oh for _goodness_ sake, John, are you quite so obtuse? _I was caught with a man_.” He sat back. “There we are.”

“You were caught with... a man?” My brain whirled and clattered and crashed through the buffers.

“ _In flagrante delicto_ , as the Romans might say.” Holmes sat up again. “John, please, don't look like that. You've no idea what it's taken for me to tell you this much.”

“Who was... the man?”

“Oh my god, just someone I met, no-one important. _John_. Please?”

The seven furies of hell were at work in my chest, in my heart, in my throat, in my mouth. And I gasped, and I stared at my friend, and tried to formulate words, but no words would come out. Holmes was pale, his face in a roil, as if waiting for me to make sense of myself.

“Then all of which you told me at the restaurant, of courting – that too was with a man?”

He nodded, stricken. 

I stood up. “I need a moment. Just... a moment. I'll just be...” I motioned to the door. Somehow I stumbled out without a backwards glance, and met the ice-chill of the landing, where I held onto the banister. It took me several moments to compose myself, to steel my own resolve. I marched back in. Holmes was still sitting in his chair, but his whole body was hunched over and his head was in his hands.

I walked straight up to him. He raised his head and looked at me, afraid. “I am so sorry, John,” he said. “I know you think the lesser of me now, and --”

“I am in love with you,” I said.

His face was blank. “I beg your pardon, what?”

“ _I am in love with you_ ,” I said again. “I love you. _Damn it_ , Holmes, I --”

Holmes leapt from his chair and grabbed both of my arms. “John,” he said. “ _John_.” His hands moved to my face. His searching eyes, now full of hope. And finally, I understood.

I understood that it was happening.

His mouth on mine, demanding, hot. My arms around his back and holding on for my dear life, and pressed together as we were, sharing our halting breath, we lost all sense and courtesy. He pushed me to the sofa, laid me down, and set to worshipping my neck with tongue and teeth. I moaned, delirious, mussed his raven hair to madness, panting curses in his ear. At length he raised his head: his face was flushed; his eyes an intense burnished silver that consumed me to the core.

“This is escalating quickly, John,” said he.

“I know. Don't _stop_ , god damn --”

He laughed, and stroked my hair back from my brow. “I can't believe we're here like this.”

I groaned and squirmed and pulled him down towards my mouth. I kissed him deeply, and observed how very different it is to kiss a man, and all the lines of him, the firmness and the leanness, and the muscle, very different indeed. 

We kissed for minutes, fairly ravenous again, my hand inside his shirt and kneading at his chest, until he stopped me, drew away. “I think perhaps we'd _better_ stop,” said he. “We need to talk.”

“But we've already talked,” I said. I wanted more of him; much more.

“Well yes, but John, we can't go all the way right here – it's fast by _anybody's_ standards.”

We both were laughing then. We straightened and we buttoned up reluctantly. “I've wanted you so much,” I said. “You've no idea.”

“I've felt the same,” said Holmes. “We really are ridiculous, the pair of us.” He poked at me. “I thought you were a ladies' man.”

“I thought the same of you!”

Holmes shook his head. He stroked my cheek. “You are in love with me?” he said.

“Very much, I am afraid.”

“And I with you.” He smiled. “Oh, Mycroft will be furious.”

“Good heavens, why does Mycroft need to know?”

“Oh, he'll find out, you mark my words. There'll be an almighty to-do, what with this being my _last chance_ and all. Let's try to keep him guessing, though.” Holmes paused. “So this is how it feels to be in love – I always wondered. But John, I warned you: I'm impossible.” 

“I've no problem with impossible.”

“You say that now!”

We looked into each other's eyes, and found our truth. My head swam with the joy of it; I couldn't care a tuppence for the past, for we were here now, in the present, and the future seemed a most exciting thing.

We drank our coffee, which was cold, then found ourselves entwined once more.

“You will be my new addiction, John,” said he.

“You are already mine,” I said, and took his mouth, and so we carried on, until the mantel clock took an affront and told us sternly between chimes that we should part and go to bed.

We snuffed the lamps, and bade each other a good night.

“Until the morning, then,” said Holmes.

“Until the morning,” I replied.


	6. Chapter 6

I arose at seven the next morning, after a restless night with precious little sleep. I washed and dressed. In my impatience to be done, my waistcoat was misbuttoned and I forgot to comb my hair. I raced downstairs to the sitting-room. No-one there! I heard a humming from the bedroom, and I found myself upon the outer side of it, and knocking, three soft raps. The humming stopped. The door cracked open, and Holmes's face peeped out.

“ _John!_ ” he said. “Good morning.” And he pulled the door, and stepped aside.

I was now inside his room for the first time. I looked around. A dressing table, chairs, and wardrobe, lamps, and yet more bookshelves, crammed. A large bed, neatly made, against one wall. I looked at Holmes.

“Uh oh,” he said.

I had him hoiked and down upon it in an instant, and it was as if there were no interval at all, between the evening and the morning, for we were kissing quite as deeply, and my hands were in his hair, and Holmes's own were at my hip. I lay on top of him, his legs apart and raised.

“We are going to be _creased_ ,” he said. 

We both found this quite hilarious.

“But John, _the door_ ,” he spluttered out. “And what of Mrs. Hudson?”

“She can't join in,” I said.

We rolled.

“My god, I love you,” I said, kissing him again.

He held my hips and thrust up into me. I groaned, and felt my hard unfurl, meeting his, and _oh!_

I looked down, in slight panic.

“I want it,” he hissed. “I want it so much.”

We touched foreheads, panting, labouring.

“I don't know what I am doing,” I confessed. “I've never had this with a man...”

“Oh, I don't care,” said he. “I'm _aching_ for you, John, that's all you need to know. We'll work out all the rest of it.”

We stared into each other's eyes, and bucked a little, stubborn, mulish. I pushed my body into his; he whined, a high-pitched keen. “Just lock the door,” he gasped. “Before... you know.”

I leapt to turn the key, a grand frustration in the scheme of things. I joined Holmes on the bed again.

“I don't know what you like,” I said. “I don't know anything.” I kissed his mouth. “What _do_ you like?”

“I like this.” He touched my prick, through layers of cloth. “And I like this.” He took my hand, and led it to his own firm cockstand. “Should _I_ take charge?” he asked. “I mean to say--”

My tongue was in his ear. “I'm going to take off all your clothes,” I said. “I want to see if you will blush.”

That set him panting all the more, and somehow robbed of his verbosity.

I stripped him of his waistcoat and his shirt, and cast them off onto the floor. I took his boots and stockings, and his trousers, and I pulled them over slender hips and down. I fixed my eyes upon the lean of him, the acres of pale goosebumped flesh. I cupped him, through his underwear. He moaned, and arched his back. My hands took hold and dragged the heavy cottons down. His cock sprang free and slapped against his abdomen. He raised up on both elbows then, to watch the whole proceedings with great interest.

“Just look at you,” I breathed. “You are so beautiful.” I kneeled upon the bed and stroked his skin. “This is so different,” I said. I kissed his stomach, and the tight buds on his chest, and touched the hot flush of his prick for the first time. He inhaled sharply. “ _John_ , my god.”

I worked him gently, fascinated, as he writhed and pitched and clutched at the thin counterpane. He twisted round to scrabble at his bedside drawer, removing a small jar which he now thrust at me. “You might use this,” he said.

“I like a man who is prepared,” I said. I paused to add a little to my fingers. I leaned over, kissed his mouth, caressed his flesh; became distracted by his succulence. At length, we separated. I rolled off the bed. I stripped, without self-consciousness. Holmes watched me with avidity. As I removed my underwear, his eyes popped in his head.

“Good lord,” said he. 

I moved towards him, and he scrambled up. He pulled me down, and launched himself on top of me. “If you don't take me soon,” he said, “I'm going to erupt.” He started laughing as he squeezed me at the ribs. “John, you are _hung_ , did any lady ever tell you?”

“How should I take you?” This concerned me still. We frotted, and we mouthed each other's sweating skin, the salt, the bitter tang of it, and I had never known a more exquisite taste or blissful feeling. Holmes flipped me over once again; he was now underneath. He drew his legs against his chest. “Like this,” he said. “You'll take me just like this.”

“Hell's bells,” I said, “I hope these walls are thick.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some long time later, we were dressed and taking breakfast by the window, quite demure, as if the solitary thing that passed between us was the weather. Every now and then we'd catch each other's eye and smile, our hearts full with the lark of it. If I had known, let's say, two months ago, that I would be here now, in love – post coital! – with a man, I would have doubted my own sanity. But here I was, in love, and with my head filled to capacity with sex and its peripheries. 

“Whatever are you thinking?” asked my friend. “It's surely not of eggs on toast.”

“Thinking of _you_ ,” I said. “The sounds you made. The way you looked when I was wicking you.”

He coloured. “John, how crude.”

“So says the fellow with the tongue!”

And we chuckled as we poured out yet more coffee from the pot.

“I think perhaps I might have met my match,” said Holmes, as he now dithered with the bacon dish. “I have the _largest_ appetite today, for some strange reason.” He looked at me. “I love you, John.”

“I love you too. So very much.” I said.

The front door bell rang out below.

“Oh, drat it all,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Who can that be?”

We listened to the rapid steps of Mrs. Hudson, trotting to the door. We heard a quiet conversation, then the tread of heavy boots upon the stair.

“Oh GOD,” said Holmes.

I started laughing. “Mycroft, surely.”

The door swung open, nary a knock or scant a warning, and the huffing man himself propelled his feet into the room. He shot a rheumy glare upon the both of us.

“Good morning,” then, at last.

“Good morning, Mycroft. You're looking splendid. I think you've lost at least an ounce of weight.”

The elder Holmes trod forward. He surveyed us, and he positively stared at me.

“Oh, I see,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I see it now, just how it is.”

“And how is that?” my friend enquired.

“I brought you cake,” replied his brother, which he now drew from a dark recess of a pocket. “A jam sponge, because you like it, and because you'd shout if I brought fruit-cake.” 

We gawked at him; quite rudely, I dare say.

“Well, thank you, Mycroft,” said my friend. “And that is all?”

“Not quite.” A pause. “I see you've come to an agreement.”

“Yes, that is so,” said Holmes, and boldly. “That didn't take you very long.”

“Well, hardly so. What with the _evidence_. What shall I do with you? You drive me to the limits of my patience.” Mycroft Holmes transferred his gaze. “Are you discreet? I warn you, doctor, if you drag my brother down, then I shall--”

“I shall not drag him anywhere. I think you underestimate my feeling in this matter.”

“It is quite possible. Dr. Watson, I have _researched_ you. Your reputation is impressive. I suppose I should be thankful that it is into your hands my brother's fallen.” 

“How very generous,” said Holmes. “Will you unleash your wrath, or shall we be kept waiting?”

“I am so tired of wrath and crossness,” replied his brother. “You are a dreadful liability, dear Sherlock, but you are family, and I cannot strangle family. If I ask you that you promise to be mindful, will you be so?”

“I give my word,” said Sherlock Holmes. 

“Then that is all, and I'll be on my way. Brief visits are the best, don't you agree? Don't let the cake go stale. I hate to see food go to waste.”

We watched as Mycroft Holmes made his departure, more sedately than on the previous occasion.

“Good gracious, Holmes,” I said, “what an extraordinary turnabout! How _did_ he know? What ever was the evidence?”

Holmes laughed, and pointed a long forefinger. “And lo, the evidence,” said he. “That mark upon your neck. I'm sorry, John, it will take days to fade. You might wear a cravat?”

“Oh, this deduction game is trickery,” I said. “All smoke and mirrors, yet!” 

I leaned across the table, and I dealt him a sound kiss upon the mouth, which he accepted with alacrity.

“Occasionally,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I will admit, occasionally.”

 

\- END -


End file.
